A MEDITATION ON A TRUTH

The mind is the womb where poems die
making the soul an eternal lamentation
exorcising the scent of death. From the mouth
blooms a song, others may call sweet
though its underbelly harbors a bitter taste.
Hands wave
conjuring art, deconstructed
some would say “it’s grotesque.”
Sooner than soon voices chorus
“who’s to judge?” while pointing at the prodigal tongue
the lynching wand. Tear-obscured bleary eyes
search for truth
and find ten million and some
claiming to be the one. The heart chooses
what will dry the tears and bring a smile
and wonders why
the world is as dark as when it began.